


While You are Sleeping

by ab2fsycho



Series: Revolve [1]
Category: Layton Kyouju Series | Professor Layton Series
Genre: I suck at tags, M/M, Shenanigans, Stalking, this is happening, yes - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-20
Updated: 2014-02-20
Packaged: 2018-01-13 05:15:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1214071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ab2fsycho/pseuds/ab2fsycho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Professor Layton begins to find certain activities rather suspicious? Just who is leaving him all of these notes and puzzles?</p>
            </blockquote>





	While You are Sleeping

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> I tripped and fell and couldn't get up, and that's how this happened. Do I look sorry? Because I'm not. I am. I totally am sorry. You know why? Because there will be more.
> 
> Erin, I'm gifting this work to you because it's all your fault.

“What are you up to? Another puzzle?” Emmy asked as she poured tea for herself, Luke, and Professor Layton.

Layton stared long and hard, glaring at the paper with a minimalist drawing that consisted of a series of polygons arranged in a way that seemed familiar to him. “Hmm . . . yes, a puzzle concealing a message I believe.” He’d found it on the floor of his office at Gressenheller the other day, lying as though it had been slipped under the door. He hadn’t looked at it until this morning.

Emmy glanced over his shoulder at the paper briefly before sitting down. Her eyebrow quirked, she blurted out, “It’s a blueprint of your office.”

“Blueprint? I . . .,” Layton squinted further, filling in more of the details of the image with his memory of his office. After a moment of imagining scrolls and fossils on the series of rectangles along one side of the polygon and replacing the rectangle near the center of the room with a couch, all the other images started to either morph in his mind or, at the very least, confirm Emmy’s observation. “You’re right,” he said. A moment of pride in Emmy’s quick solution washed away as he considered why someone would send him a blueprint of his own office. What was the message? “You know my office rather well to be able to point out that this is a discreet sketch of it.”

“Emmy and I do spend a great deal of time with you, Professor,” Luke pointed out.

“It’s inevitable that we’d get used to your surroundings,” Emmy added before a curious look overtook her expression. “Is there anyone else who knows you well enough to have drawn that?”

“No one that I can think of right off the top of my head,” Layton said, adjusting his hat. He had gotten rather accustomed to having Emmy and Luke around, just as they had become as familiar with his space as he felt he was. However, neither of them could or would have sent him this puzzle without owning up to it right then and there. No one else he knew seemed to have the time to play such a trick on him. Suddenly, it seemed like a trick. Was that intentional?

As he was trying to decipher what this could mean, he glanced at the writing at the top of the page. In black ink, it read ‘Hershel Layton.’ Layton had the brief thought that he had seen this atrocious handwriting before, but couldn’t place it. 

After that first day the puzzles continued coming, and each one signed in that same familiar handwriting. They got harder and harder to solve as they continued to appear under his doorjamb. Sometimes the answer could be found by simply looking through his office, and sometimes by thinking back on certain events in his life. These events were mostly famous and had been featured in newspapers. Minimalist blueprints didn’t show up again unless Luke and Emmy majorly switched things around in his office, which they tended to do whenever Rosa needed additional help straightening up after the professor. No matter how often he told them it wasn’t necessary to clean that intensely, they seemed to ignore him. The case was especially true with Rosa, who often liked to remind him that gentlemen should always keep their workspaces tidy. 

After a while, it began to disturb Emmy that these puzzles were so heavily centered on Layton. “It’s intrusive, don’t you think?” she asked.

“I suppose it might be,” he pondered, but he hadn’t yet found the information revealed by each solution too alarming.

It wasn’t until the arrival of the last blueprint that his opinion changed. Though Emmy had been the one to quickly reveal the first puzzle to be his office, he immediately recognized the layout of this sketch; it was his home. Somehow there was an individual who not only was well-read up on Layton’s successes and knew the changes and shifts of his office at university, but who also knew where he lived and the properties of his home.

Layton’s eyes widened as he gripped the page in both hands, staring down at it with a furrowed brow. He didn’t notice the dampness of his palms until he smeared the paper with his hand. Everything. The crafter of these puzzles had gotten just about everything within his home correct, right down to the placement of the chairs in the kitchen and the alignment of the facilities in his bathroom. No, Professor Hershel Layton had not felt his space being invaded until then. He could count on one hand how many people could possibly know the layout of his place this well and none of them would do this for any purpose, entertainment or otherwise.

“Is something the matter, Professor?” Luke asked, pulling his attention away from the blueprint.

Layton stilled, exasperated for but a moment. He had to consciously tell his hands to stop shaking. Without further thought, he answered, “No, my boy,” and crumpled the puzzle between his palms. Luke looked somewhat surprised at the action, but Layton didn’t feel the need to justify it. It would only upset his young apprentice. What was worse was this could possibly endanger both Luke and Emmy. What was to stop someone who had thoroughly mapped out Layton’s residence from doing something to them as well? Layton surprised himself with how protective he was over his assistant and his apprentice (Luke had made the distinction between the two clear on many an occasion). He didn’t necessarily fear for his own safety so much as theirs. He believed himself capable of handling whatever was to come of this intruder.

Throwing out the blueprint, he had the distinct feeling that his opinion on that would eventually change as well.



Layton got up one morning, rubbing his face and groaning as he ambled over to the restroom. Yawning, he went about his normal morning routine without interruption. That is, until he looked into the mirror. There was something odd about the reflection; the glass seemed grimy. Well, grimier than usual. Layton squinted and leaned closer, running a finger over the smudge. That did nothing. As his vision cleared, he followed the path of the marks and saw a pattern in the glass. He didn’t recognize it. He didn’t recognize any of the markings. Stepping away, he proceeded with his morning routine. Putting the marks on the mirror out of his mind temporarily, he thought a hot shower would be just the thing to jumpstart his brain. Maybe he’d figure out what was on the mirror after he’d washed.

His showers only ever lasted fifteen minutes. Any longer and he’d boil. Stepping back out of the tub, he wrapped a towel around himself as the steam from the hot water cleared his sinuses. Drying off his hair with a second towel, he glanced back at the mirror . . . and dropped the towel he had been holding. The steam had fogged up the mirror, revealing the message that had been hidden on the glass.

Layton found himself pressed against the wall furthest from the mirror as he read the missive: ‘You’re a deep sleeper, Professor.’ His heart rate sped up as he immediately recognized the handwriting. The same writer who’d been sending him those puzzles had been inside his residence. He’d been inside his room, his restroom. He’d stood over Layton as he’d slept and Layton had never even suspected it.

His whole body shook as he realized that he had already gendered the individual behind this obscene violation of privacy. He felt defenseless, like his personal space had been sullied, and on some level he felt enraged. In the midst of his feelings however, some logic shone through. It was then that Layton recognized the handwriting. At last, he remembered a particular puzzle from a long time ago. He remembered a puzzle he’d solved in Misthallery, during the event that had brought him and Luke together and inevitably introduced him to the man behind the specter that was destroying the town. A maid in Luke’s house had seemed perplexed by the change in Doland’s handwriting since the appearance of the specter. Eventually, Layton had realized that Doland wasn’t Doland at all.

It was Jean Descole. Descole was behind this.

Layton clenched his fists. Descole could’ve done any number of things while in his home. There was a moment’s pause for panic to sink into his chest as he thought of Luke and Emmy. The panic didn’t ebb. Even as he realized that Luke was with his family at this time and Emmy was helping Inspector Grosky with the disappearance of a young girl, the panic still waged war within him. He felt like he was going to be sick. His residence had literally been invaded and he had been vulnerable, helpless to do anything to stop it. Layton felt he could be crushed by this sudden feeling that no matter where he went, he would not be safe. Luke and Emmy would not be safe.

He shook his head. But it was only him. It was surely only Layton Descole was tormenting. Luke and Emmy would’ve mentioned something if they’d been receiving the same amount of attention Layton had recently. They certainly would have mentioned feeling endangered by an unknown presence. Wouldn’t they? Layton shook his head again. Of course they would.

He had to stop this before this situation escalated any further. He couldn’t reasonably go to Scotland Yard and ask for help. The only evidence he had at the moment was the familiarity of Descole’s handwriting. Besides, asking for police intervention would only alert Emmy, Luke, and Descole himself. No, Layton had to start this off on his own. He’d save Scotland Yard and Emmy’s connections for when he could no longer do this on his own. This meant he had to catch Descole in the act of invading Layton’s home. Layton simply could not allow Emmy and Luke to get involved, and Descole needed to realize that the professor wasn’t going to let him get away with this.

With that resolved, determination replaced his panic. Seeking to rid his body of the tenseness that had overtaken him at the realization of the message, he picked up the towel and started wiping away the condensation on the mirror. As he erased the message, his resolve strengthened. Glaring at the now clean mirror, he told himself he’d catch the culprit. He’d do it before his apprentice returned and before his assistant came to his aid. He just had to be patient, and lose some sleep. Losing sleep was hardly a problem. He’d stayed up long hours reading and researching before. This would be no different.



Descole didn’t show the first night Layton remained awake. He should have guessed that his masked rival would expect Layton to feel threatened after his latest dispatch, and therefore that Layton would try to catch him. At his office, Rosa commented on how tired he looked. She suspected he’d stayed up all night reading again, and he didn’t bother to correct her. He would’ve genuinely preferred that scenario to what had actually kept him awake. 

Emmy and Luke would return to their duties with him in two days. He had to catch Descole by then. This meant he wouldn’t be sleeping at all till then. At least, he wouldn’t be sleeping in his own bed. He certainly didn’t want to get caught sleeping in his office. Rosa would be livid if she found him with his face planted on an open book once more. Layton was beginning to wonder if she actually kept count of how often that happened.

Draining his third cup of tea, he decided he’d begin gathering some books from his office and do some work at home. It would keep him awake as he waited to catch his intruder. He wasn’t sure he could endure another night like last night. He had stayed in bed, eyes wide open and fidgeting as he waited for any sign of activity. His anticipation had grown to such an unbearable state that he was creating memory games and brain teasers in his head. He’d need something to occupy himself if he hoped to stay up another night. Rubbing his eyes, he wasn’t sure which would be worse: confronting Descole or staying this tired for an extended period of time.



Well, his plan didn’t exactly turn out as he’d expected. He’d still fallen asleep sitting up despite his best efforts, and with an open book in his lap. He’d consumed a total of fourteen cups of tea, and even that hadn’t done anything to keep his system active.

As his eyes slid open, he chastised himself for giving in to his weariness. He remembered checking the clock and realizing that it was 02:44, but whatever happened after that he really couldn’t recall to save his life. Without reaching up, he could already tell there were noticeable bags forming under his eyes.

Looking down at the text he had been reading, it took every ounce of willpower in him not to jump and curse aloud. There was a note sticking between the two pages. Before he even picked it up to read it, an eerie feeling washed over him and left a disgusting, almost tangible layer of dread on his skin. Blinking several times before he could focus on it, the note read, ‘Bookmarks are such wonderful things, Professor.’ Layton scowled, wondering how Descole had managed to appear conveniently as the professor had fallen asleep and also how he’d gotten so close to Layton without him even suspecting it. His skin crawled, the dread turning to something akin to fury. He wasn’t angry with Descole. No, he was angry with himself for allowing this to happen a second time. At least, he assumed it was the second time. For all he knew, Descole could have done this several times by now and had only recently begun to entertain himself with Layton’s anxiety over the situation.

He had to find a more effective way of staying awake. Clearly this wasn’t working. Getting up and going to the bathroom, he glanced at the mirror. Now that he saw the bags under his eyes, he knew Emmy was going to suspect something. She was very astute, and wouldn’t waste time getting to the bottom of Layton’s fatigue. He couldn’t afford for her to find out what was troubling him. She already suspected too much. The reminder that Emmy and Luke were returning the next day made him more desperate to place eyes on Descole as he broke into his home.

After getting his shower and dressing in the bathroom instead of in his room, he gathered up his books (which had failed to occupy him enough to keep him awake all night), drained a pot of tea, and made his way to university.



“Professor Layton!” Rosa’s cry woke him.

Lifting his face up off the page his cheek felt plastered to, he sighed. “My apologies,” he uttered almost automatically. “I didn’t realize I was—.”

“It’s almost seven! What are you still doing here?”

“Seven in the morning?” he asked, rubbing his face and trying to jog his memory of exactly how he’d managed to do exactly what he’d desired not to and fall asleep while working.

“The afternoon, Professor! Just how awful is your sleep schedule that you must always collapse at your desk or on your couch?”

She really had no idea. As Rosa continued muttering about what she was going to do to his office when he wasn’t looking, he experienced a moment of confusion as he caught sight of his hat. There was an ongoing joke amongst his colleagues that he never took his hat off, that he even slept with it on. While the latter was not always true, he was certain he’d fallen asleep on the desk with his hat on. It could have fallen off due to how he had fallen asleep, but what were the chances of it landing perfectly upright on the corner of the desk facing him. There was no chance. It was impractical.

Sitting up, he felt something fall off his back. Reaching for the material, Layton just stared at it. Perplexed, he couldn’t fathom how one of the throws he kept folded and put away (or rather, Emmy, Luke, and Rosa kept folded and put away) had escaped its place in one of the drawers and found its way around his shoulders. He uttered aloud, “I certainly didn’t fall asleep with this.”

“Well you must have. No one’s entered your office save for the two of us, and I most certainly didn’t put it there,” Rosa commented, still irate.

“Yes,” he murmured, and the chill of dread returned as he glanced at his office window. “I must have.” He knew he hadn’t, but he also knew who had. The thought sickened him. Not safe. Nowhere was safe. 

“Hmph!” Rosa let out. He paid no attention to her as he placed the throw on his desk and readied for departure. Grabbing his hat and placing it on his head, he found a slip of paper where the hat had been resting. Unfolding and reading it, he cringed. ‘Perhaps you should get some rest, Professor,’ it read. He tore the note in half and dropped it in the trashcan. With that he exited Gressenheller, got in the Laytonmobile, and headed home.

Nothing he’d done had gone according to plan and Emmy and Luke were going to come back to a wrecked Professor Layton. Frustration was dangerously close to clouding his judgment, and he decided that he would have to find some way to tell them that they were going o have to stay elsewhere. He just had to figure out how. Their safety came first, and so far he’d been unsuccessful in his endeavor to do this on his own. Descole was just toying with him now. Layton needed to up the intensity of his search for proof. In the morning he’d figure out how exactly he intended to accomplish all of this.

He felt exhausted as he entered his bedroom. He barely remembered the drive home, let alone stepping through his own front door. He must be getting older, because he could no longer stay awake for hours on end without feeling the consequences. But it had only been two days. He’d endured this sort of insomnia before, so his extreme lethargy hardly made sense to him. Then again, the circumstances were more stressful than those previously experienced. One would think the stress would keep him awake. 

Layton barely managed to kick off his shoes before collapsing into bed. For a moment, he was ready to give in and just fall asleep. However, every time he almost succeeded a noise would disturb him. It didn’t matter whether it was the walls creaking or the nighttime traffic outside his window. The noises kept him from simply surrendering to tiredness. Rolling onto his side, he thought it best if he actually were to undress and properly prepare for bed. However Layton’s limbs currently functioned as deadweights, and he knew there was no way he could convince himself to move. His mind in a fog and his skin crawling with discomfort, he was torn between wanting to sleep and wanting to achieve his objective. Somehow he came to the conclusion that achieving his objective required him to be in the right mindset, and the right mindset would return to him if he actually rested. The feeling of being unwell and unsafe didn’t dissipate, though.

And that’s when he heard it. There was a creak in the floorboards, one that sounded distinctly different from the other groans. Layton’s whole being stiffened as he recognized the misplaced footstep. The mist in his head cleared and suddenly he was wide awake. Descole was here. Descole was here, in his home. Layton hadn’t heard him come in, didn’t know when he’d come in, and couldn’t if his life depended on it tell where in the residence the footstep had originated.

His heart racing, he kept as still as possible. Though he wanted his eyes to remain open, he kept them shut. He struggled to keep his breathing even so as to fool Descole into thinking Layton was asleep. After all, if Descole was here then he must think Layton unaware of his presence. Keeping his position and objective in mind, he listened intently. His ears strained while he pondered over how Descole was capable of moving so quietly. It was as if he’d memorized the sensitive areas of the floor and learned to avoid them. The thought was disturbing to Layton: Descole had mapped out even the creaky floorboards.

There was a soft tap near the doorway to his bedroom. It was all Layton could do to stay still and pretend to be asleep. All he wanted to do was jump up and confront Descole, but he was in no way armed or equipped to do such a thing. Layton focused on his own breathing, afraid that if he didn’t keep it under control his cover would be blown. Minutes that felt like hours passed. His urge to twitch under the pressure was getting harder to resist. The thought of jittering made him think of Luke and how he often fidgeted, and that succeeded in encouraging Layton to keep still and figure out what Descole was up to. His throat was so dry that he didn’t think himself capable of speaking or screaming even if that became necessary. Trying to keep a sound, clear mind was difficult under such scrutiny, but Layton was capable. He had to be. However, he couldn’t tell at all what part of the room Descole was in and that was making the task of keeping calm and logical much harder. 

Until Descole spoke. “You’ve made a couple of errors here, Layton.” Descole was standing behind him. Layton might have jolted at how close his voice was, but managed to keep still and keep breathing normally. He kept still despite how Descole had addressed him aloud. For all he knew, his rival was clueless to the professor’s state and made a habit of talking to him while Layton slept. That sounded like something Descole would do: talk to sleeping or otherwise inanimate objects. It was unclear whether the professor could fool Descole into believing him asleep, but that was his best option at the moment. It rendered him at risk, but with Descole behind him he at least had the chance to get up and run for the door. The depth of Descole’s voice almost made him shiver. It almost sounded playful, like this was a game to him. Indeed it could be. As Layton’s heart pounded against his ribcage, he kept listening, waiting for Descole to continue. “While it’s flattering that you would lose sleep over my presence, I could’ve thought of a number of ways to catch someone breaking into your place of residence without making yourself suffer.” When Descole spoke again, his voice sounded closer. “For example, marbles at every door and window. It’s not like your assistant or your apprentice are here to fall victim to such a trick.” The mere mention of Emmy and Luke almost made Layton’s breath hitch. In fact it did, but he evened his breathing and hoped Descole didn’t notice. Descole chuckled low in his throat. “Butter or shortening rubbed into the floorboards would’ve been just as affective, but harder to clean up.” There was a dip in the mattress, as though the other man were leaning on the bed. With him that close, it was a miracle Layton wasn’t visibly shaking. He hoped he wasn’t. If he was, it was completely involuntary. “Your other mistake is that you don’t sleep on your side.” Descole had watched him sleep. The reminder was enough to actually make him tremor. He felt a bead of sweat forming at his temple before he could stop himself from curling up tighter. Fighting to maintain control over himself, the thought of confrontation was replaced with flight. Descole must suspect he was awake. No, he knew Layton was awake. What was stopping Layton from getting up and running? He felt completely frozen under the gaze of his rival. Descole chuckled again. He was enjoying this torment. “Come now, Layton. There’s no need to be shy. You’re very . . . affectionate in your sleep.” What did he mean by that? How did he know that? Did he actually—? “Layton?” The dip in the mattress shifted, and Descole’s tone turned mischievous. Suddenly there was a hand on Layton’s upper back, and Layton couldn’t stop himself from jumping. He gasped and his eyes shot open. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the silhouette of Jean Descole leering over him. Another hand grabbed at his chest, squeezing just over his heart. With a sadistic smile barely visible, Descole uttered, “I can feel your heartbeat through your back.”

Run! Layton’s mind cried. Wrenching the claw-like hand from his chest, Layton rolled off the bed and hit his knees on the floor as he clumsily attempted to escape the now laughing Descole. Stumbling to his feet and towards the hallway, he hit the door with a thud. Grabbing for the handle, he turned and . . . it was locked. The tapping sound . . . he was locked in here with Descole. A series of phrases ran through his mind: run, don’t panic, fight, keep a clear head, stay logical, try reasoning with him, _don’t panic_. But every last rule Layton had ever made for himself suddenly shattered and was replaced with fright. Locked in his bedroom and without a weapon (he really should have kept something in his room with him), he was at a sudden loss of what to do.

In a flash of movement that Layton just barely caught out of the corner of his eye, Descole was upon him. Before Layton could move, his front was being pressed against the door while Descole pinned his wrists. He gasped again, a sound of alarm escaping his raspy throat as Descole drew closer to him. Layton could feel him breathe against the nape of his neck and it made the shivering worse. He wanted to fight, wanted to argue, wanted to do anything other than be trapped here with Descole, but he’d lost the ability to think a while ago and that hadn’t happened in so long that he couldn’t recall how he’d dealt with such panic in the past. He was lost, and feeling Descole’s body against his back was only making matters worse. To top it off, he could hear the smile in Descole’s laughter. He was enjoying Layton’s discomfort. His breath coming out in frightened huffs, he croaked out, “Let go!”

“Layton,” Descole crooned, his voice smug and hardly recovered from his bout of laughter, “I’m surprised at you. All that brainpower and you panic at the slightest touch. I suppose I expected too much from you.”

Slight touch? Descole’s body completely covered Layton’s. There was nothing slight about this contact. Glaring, Layton threw all the strength he could muster into an attempt at escape. Twisting his wrists, he went to sink an elbow into Descole’s abdomen. His rival dodged the move, but opened a gap for the professor to escape through. He took his chance and slipped free of Descole’s hold. Spinning about, he faced the other man. Panting, adrenaline pumping through his veins, and sweat forming along his forehead, he could just barely make out the Cheshire grin on Descole’s face. He could make out the white trim on his hat, the white of his mask, and the white of his buttoned-down shirt and boa. There was a movement in the darkness; Layton was barely able to make out that the other man was tossing his cloak in the corner of the room. Layton stiffened. Descole couldn’t mean well by that gesture. “Why are you here?” Layton rasped out, his throat still dry and voice still cracked.

“To sate my curiosity of the great Professor Layton. For such an extraordinary fellow, you lead quite the dull life. Your interactions with others,” Descole raised his hand, but Layton couldn’t make out what he was doing, “are interesting to behold. So gentlemanly. So . . . collected.” Layton could just make out the sound of something being uncapped. “One wonders what it is about an eleven-year-old boy and a young woman with an attitude that makes him care for them so much. One wonders how they’re any different.”

There was a note in Descole’s tone that turned dark. Layton’s breath hitched at the mention of Emmy and Luke. “What do you intend to do to them?” Layton asked, fearful for the two individuals currently closest to him.

Descole froze, tilted his head as he examined the professor. The smile was gone and Layton couldn’t hear over his own heartbeat. “Nothing.” The answer should’ve been a relief to Layton, but already he sensed a caveat. “It would be easy to use them against you. So easy. So . . . boring. No, I want to best you in a different way. But,” he dropped his hand to his side, and in the limited amount of light Layton could just make out a needle, “not this time.”

Once again Descole was upon him, and Layton was almost completely incapable of keeping up with his movements. In one fell swoop, Layton was thrust against the wall behind him and lifted off the ground by his jacket and shirt collar. “No!” He was hardly aware of the cry that escaped his mouth as something sharp was jabbed against his neck. He swung a fist, knocking the hand with the needle away. Layton brought up his knee, and this time hit Descole’s abdomen. With his feet back on the ground, Layton tried to shove Descole away from him and escape to the other side of the room. He almost did, but then a hand wove its way through his hair and brought him staggering to a halt. Layton cried out as his hat was knocked off and he was dragged back towards his perpetrator. When Descole pressed himself against Layton’s back once more, he trapped Layton’s arms against his chest with one arm. “Stop!” the professor nearly shouted as he felt the needle stabbing its way into the muscles of his neck. Layton twisted and pulled, but Descole kept pace with him and succeeded in dispensing whatever the drug was into Layton’s skin.

The effects were immediate. Layton felt a wave of dizziness come on as his knees gave out. He thrashed, thinking that despite how out of sorts he felt he could still fight. Descole let him go then, and Layton found himself sprawled out on the floor. “Well, that could’ve gone a lot easier,” Descole commented as Layton tried and failed to get back on his feet. His limbs felt like they wanted to go limp, and the miasma in his mind returned ten times stronger than before. Parts of him even began going numb. Unable to get up, he tried to crawl away from Descole. The most he managed to do was flip-flop towards the locked door. “You really ought to relax. It would’ve made this a lot simpler.” Layton’s mind, though misted over from the effects of the drug, registered fear. He was in danger. He was helpless. There was no hope of gaining the upper hand in this situation.

Layton barely felt the arm that wrapped around his waist until it was lifting him off the ground. “N-no,” he groaned, barely able to speak through the haze. He thrashed against the other man, trying to escape his hold before it tightened. Terror ripped through him as the grip constricted despite his best efforts. “Don’t—!”

“Now Professor,” Descole said sardonically as he pulled Layton upright on unsteady legs, one arm wrapped around his gut and the other around his chest, “if I truly wanted to hurt you, don’t you think I would’ve done so before tonight?” Descole hoisted Layton upward before the professor found himself lying on his bed again. Layton really wasn’t of the right mentality to ponder the question properly, but the answer seemed obvious even in this state of mind. Descole could have done worse. He could still do worse.

The haze was thickening, his limbs deadening. He couldn’t think. He could barely see before, and definitely couldn’t see now. All he could do was listen and, to a certain extent, feel. Layton argued with his own body in order to croak out the question, “W-why?”

“Why the drug? My dearest rival, I told you: as flattering as it is for you to lose sleep over me, I find it highly unnecessary.” Layton barely registered Descole’s attempt at removing his jacket. Flinging his arms away from the other man, he groaned his dissent. Descole’s chuckle reached his ears. “Well if you desire to go to bed fully clothed, be my guest. I mean, we can’t have that Altava girl arriving here and finding the room a wreck and you clothed and bruised. What on earth will she think?”

“Be worse if unclothed,” Layton slurred out.

Descole actually burst out laughing at the half-mumble. “And here I was wondering whether there was a single awful thought inside that interesting mind of yours. You are fascinating.”

“What do you want?” Layton managed to ask as the haze darkened his mind further.

There was a hum in Descole’s voice as he answered, “To understand the man who so enjoys puzzles and mysteries. And for you not to intervene. Yet.” Layton barely felt fingers carding through his hair. A warmth seeped into Layton’s skin where Descole touched, and he could just feel Descole lying on the bed beside him. “I find it interesting that you have such a cool exterior, but as soon as you’re asleep you’ll seize the hand of the one beside you. It appears there’s more to you than a calculating mind and a boring life, Layton, and I intend to discover your secrets.” Drifting off, the last words he heard from Jean Descole were, “This is one conundrum you will not solve. This is one game you cannot play. Not on your own.”



Descole sat on the bed, watching as Layton’s breath evened out and his muscles lost their tenseness. Once Layton was completely out, Descole relaxed and stretched out in the spot next to him. He supposed the decent thing to do would be to monitor the professor whilst under the influence of the drug. He would resume his usual snooping later on.

He’d be hard-pressed to admit that watching Layton sleep was calming, but it actually was. Half an hour into making sure Layton didn’t injure himself while under the influence, the professor was doing exactly as Descole had told him he tended to do: being affectionate. The man smiled as his unconscious rival rolled over onto his stomach and draped an arm over Descole’s lap. Combing his fingers through Layton’s hair, Descole sighed. These moments always fascinated Descole. Hershel Layton, the famous archaeologist who always remained in control of practically everything in any given situation, had a soft side buried under that stony exterior. Descole was dying to know how deep he would have to go to break open the hard shell Layton had fashioned for himself.

Part of him also wondered what the professor had endured. There had to be a reason for such a hard shell to have formed. Perhaps there were several. Descole intended to discover them all. For now, however, he had to ensure Layton continued to get a good night’s rest. Descole smiled as Layton’s arm tightened around him. A soft laugh escaped him. He was in for a long night.



“Professor?” A voice reached through the haze and stirred Layton. The drug was still running rampant in his system, still had its talons deep in his mind. “Professor? Are you alright?” He couldn’t come to. His limbs still felt dead, but his mind was slowly waking. “Professor!”

He snapped awake as Emmy slapped him across the face. Eyes wide open and body tense, he gasped at the hit. “Emmy!” he shouted.

“Well you didn’t answer me, or the door for that matter. What was I supposed to think?” Emmy stood back, allowing him to sit up on his own.

“What time is it?” he asked. “And how’d you get inside?”

“The front door was unlocked. My goodness man, you are an utter mess without us around, aren’t you?”

“Us?” he asked.

“Yes. Luke is in the kitchen fixing tea.”

“Alone?” Layton asked as he glanced around the room, finding no signs of the struggle from last night. Last night. He remembered last night. He wanted to stand up, but knew that if he did it would be even more obvious he had been drugged. “The front door was unlocked?”

“Yes. And it’s a little past nine, so what are you doing still in bed? Those better not be yesterday’s clothes,” she declared.

“Emmy, let me have a moment to get ready, alright?” He rubbed his face with both hands, trying very hard not to think of everything that had happened the night before just yet.

Her look of irritation turned to one that was a mixture of suspicion and disquiet. “Is everything okay, Professor? This really isn’t normal, even for you.”

He looked up and tried his best to smile. “I’m fine. Just a little short on sleep.”

After a moment, she seemed to accept that. “Alright. Hurry up. I’ve got loads to tell you about the missing girls case with Inspector Grosky.”

Layton squinted. “Girls?” He’d thought it only one girl that had disappeared.

“No, turns out there have been a few others. The disappearances might be connected. Anyway, get yourself ready for the day there, Professor. Luke made off with some of Aunt Taffy’s candy and I intend to savor it.”

Before he could ask if that was a proper breakfast for the two of them, she was gone. Sighing, he glanced about the room again. It seemed Descole had left no trace of his presence save for the unlocked front door. He must have known that Layton would oversleep, and that Emmy would barge in and find a way to rouse him.

A series of questions assailed Layton, but none of them he could answer. Descole had said he wouldn’t harm Emmy or Luke. Was that a trustworthy statement? He hadn’t wanted to harm Layton, and yet he very well could have. It would have been easy. It would have been quick. He could have gotten away with any crime he so desired, but instead had played around with Layton’s mind and forced him to go back to sleep instead. The worst he’d done was breaking and entering. And rearrange his hat and a throw in his office. Why didn’t he—?

Layton stopped himself. These questions weren’t getting answered, and there was no use racking his brain over them. I fascinate him, the thought struck him. If this was all just Descole satisfying a need to spy on Layton, while it was highly uncomfortable, he wasn’t harming anyone or anything. So far. That could change. But for now, the only thing being compromised was Layton’s privacy. He should feel violated. He should feel disgusted. He should be terrified. Maybe it was the effects of the drug, but he didn’t find himself worried about the seemingly ever-present Jean Descole. Perhaps that opinion would begin to change in the future as well. That seemed to be a trend, lately.

As he tried to stand up and found himself capable of getting back on his own two feet, he relaxed. He went to remove his jacket and ready himself for another day when his hand grazed something sticking out of his pocket. His brow furrowing, he pulled the note out and read it: ‘To be continued, Professor.’ Of course. Layton didn’t doubt in the slightest that Descole intended to continue last night’s ‘conversation.’

**Author's Note:**

> PL6 SPOILERS: So you've played that one game, eh? Well I've got beef with that game. I have no idea what I'm even saying right now. Anyway, how do I explain myself when that game exists. It just so happens I did in this tumblr post 
> 
> http://twofacedpsycho.tumblr.com/post/76159079104/in-which-no-one-obsesses-like-alex-when-she-wants-to
> 
> Interested and don't mind being spoiled? Well. Enjoy the nonsense I have to tell myself in order to keep doing the things I do.


End file.
